The business was simple enough. Aim and shoot, then move on to the next scumbag. It was the preparation that was the real hard job, finding reliable sources of actionable information, picking the right tools for the job, plotting out an assault. It sometimes took Reaper days to plot his next large-scale move, but he kept busy with his nightly patrols, stopping whatever shit he stumbled across with a swift bullet or slash of a knife. Sometimes, though, sometimes he got lucky. Sometimes, he wandered into a bar and overheard some drunkard proclaim that the Chicos were planning to knock over a bank the next night, that it was going to be a big payday they were going to use to bankroll a whole new arsenal of heavy-duty gear.

[i]'Not on my watch'[/i]

And so it came that he found himself staking out the bank in question, mere minutes before the show was set to start. His van parked over half a block away and stocked up for any level of engagement. He watched the front door of the bank through a pair of binoculars, waiting for any sign of movement.